


Sputnik

by GloriousBlackout



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5 Things, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mind Control, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 04:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5033029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriousBlackout/pseuds/GloriousBlackout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times the shut-down code was used on Bucky over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sputnik

**Author's Note:**

> I may be conveniently ignoring that the Sputnik code is a one-time only thing in the comics and just assuming that Bucky's handlers improved it in the MCU :P I hope you enjoy this and, as always, any feedback is appreciated!

**One**

The Asset learns quickly. He must – his handlers have little patience for anything else – and so he learns to keep his mouth shut unless ordered otherwise, to completely abide by their orders, and to ensure that none of his captors come to harm at his hand. He endures their merciless training regime because he knows he will not be strong enough if he does not, and he adapts to the painful weight at his left side as he turns the prosthetic into a powerful weapon he can control. He's heard mutterings that they will send him into the field soon, put what he's learned to the test, and though he knows he should not want for anything, he finds himself anticipating the feel of the sun on his face.

He is not ready yet, however. His training may almost be at an end and he knows he is certainly capable of completing whatever task his handlers may have for him, but they are afraid of him; afraid of their own creation. He knows they will not send him out to fight until they know that he will not defect.

He knows because he heard two scientists discuss it while they upgraded his arm, and as they are forbidden to speak directly to him he finds that they very easily forget that he is capable of hearing them. That may prove to be an advantage one day, but he knows that such thoughts are dangerous and so he keeps his mouth shut.

One night he is approached by a small, weedy-looking man he thinks he knows, and the sight of his smile sends an uncomfortable chill down his spine. His mind instantly associates the man with pain, with the feeling of his brain being altered while all he can do is scream, and though he wants to run away he knows he must be still. He watches while the man studies him with beady eyes before looking down at his notes and smiling, and he motions to a guard by the door to come closer.

The man obeys, gun held carefully at his side, but if the scientist is concerned he shows no sign of it. The Asset watches him silently as he puts down his notes, meets his gaze without hesitation, and utters a single word: "Sputnik."

There is no time to question it before a sick sensation settles in his stomach and he feels himself falling back against a wall, and he briefly wonders if the man has killed him before darkness takes over his mind.

He wakes to pain. Sweat is dripping from his forehead and he's very aware that his chest is heaving, while his body aches all over from wounds he cannot remember receiving. He gasps, and only then does a sharp pressure on his abdomen cease, and the scientist from his nightmares meets his eyes once more.

"Impressive..." the man mutters, and the Asset knows immediately that the words aren't directed at him. "A deep sleep indeed. Your men will be safe in his presence, I have no doubt."

A man he cannot see responds, but he cannot hear the words. All he can do is look down at where he's lying strapped to a bed, and his nausea returns at the site of his bare torso riddled with deep cuts. For a moment all he can see is red and every cut seems to burn with a different intensity, and the uncomfortable knowledge that he must have been at the scientist's mercy for hours settles in his gut.

The man in question lays a gloved hand on his ruined shoulder and a burning in his chest that is not caused by the wounds reminds him to breathe. "Relax, sergeant," the scientist says with that sick smile stretching across his face. "They will heal. I was quite careful about that."

The assurance brings no relief, and the man leaves him alone without another word. In the resounding silence, all he can do is stare at the ceiling while listening to his own painful breathing, and the knowledge of how little control he has over his own body is enough to make him wish the scientist had come here to kill him instead.

* * *

**Two**

He dreams of a blond man with blue eyes.

He cannot recall where he has seen this man before – can attach no name or title to his face – but he is familiar in a way that he cannot understand; the sight of him bringing warmth to bones chilled by ice.

This is wrong, he knows. He is not supposed to have recollections beyond what his handlers have shown him, and even then he is supposed to forget most of his missions as well. That is his purpose; he is not so much a constant being than one that exists only for a few days before being put to sleep once more, and any knowledge of a life outside of that is alien and forbidden.

It brings him comfort however. In his dreams he is unmarked by the scars his handlers have dealt him; a smile comes easily and he moves without pain. In his dreams, the man with the blue eyes shows him love and makes him laugh and the longer he goes without waking, the more real it becomes. He is not supposed to let his mind wander like this, but he is in the ice because his handlers currently have no use for him and they cannot stop him from indulging in another man's memories.

They pull him free from his sleep too soon. The sight of a half-remembered smile shatters as artificial light floods his vision and a sudden warmth pierces his skin like a knife. He's suddenly very aware of rough hands on his body and his heart pounding in his chest, and for a moment he forgets what he is and scans the faces of his captors in the hopes of finding the man from his dreams.

Only one comes close; a young man with striking blue eyes and blonde hair – looking immaculate in a grey suit – and the Asset finds himself uttering the name 'Steve' without meaning to.

He knows he's wrong the second the name slips from his mouth. The man before him has eyes that are far too cold and there are hard lines on his face, and a sternness in those empty eyes at the mention of a name that does not belong to him bears no trace of the 'Steve' he's missing. A logical part of his mind tells him to ignore his dreams – it would be best if his handlers never found out about them – but his heart is beating too rapidly for that and every breath feels like a chore. Before he can stop himself, he whips his metal arm around in a panic and knocks at least two scientists into a wall.

He can hear the sudden movement of guns being aimed in his direction before he sees the panic in the faces of his captors, and a small part of him is almost satisfied by the sight. The only one who has remained calm is the blonde man before him – his new handler, he guesses by the way he's dressed. He watches the Asset with mild curiosity on his face and approaches even as armed soldiers take careful steps back, and the man's hand is cold as ice when it lands on his shoulder.

Close up, he begins to wonder how he could ever have mistaken this man for Steve. As little as he remembers from his dreams, he knows that Steve was light and fire, whereas the man before him has brought nothing but ice. It is almost a comfort to know that the man who must have meant so much to him in another life does not have to suffer the indignity of seeing what he's become in this place.

He barely hears the shutdown code being uttered but his brain reacts instantly, and he feels the rush of falling and strong hands trying to catch him before he gives in to blessed darkness.

* * *

**Three**

Freedom does not suit James as well as he'd like, but he knows it is better than what awaits him if he goes back.

He'd completed his mission as ordered – a single target eliminated in Central Park with no unnecessary casualties – but he hadn't returned to his handlers as was expected. There had been something off about this city; something about its bustling streets and towering buildings that instilled the need to run while he had the chance, and though he knows his handlers must be looking for him, he embraces the opportunity to think for himself while he still can.

He does not know why he chose the name 'James'. He has never been referred to by any names before, although his titles have ranged from 'Soldier' to 'Asset'. However, he's quickly learned that people expect him to give them a name to call him and James had seemed natural at the time.

Two weeks after abandoning his handlers, the name has stuck. It is the only familiar thing he has anymore.

He'd hoped the city would give him answers. It had been a half-forgotten attachment to the place that had caused him to run, after all, but the more he walks its streets the more he realises that too much has changed. Even if he could remember the city in its entirety, there is something off about the whole place which means that none of it feels real. The roads are too packed, the current dialects too unfamiliar, the technology far beyond what he can remember. It is unnerving, to be somewhere he thinks might once have been home only to realise that even that is lost to him. He truly is no-one.

He can use that to his advantage if he tries. The people running the shelter he's been living in do not care who he is, nor do they care for his history. They only want him to have a place to sleep and to avoid disturbing the other residents, and he has had enough practice at being a ghost to come and go quietly. Some men – generally veterans or older men with nowhere else to go – have tried to speak to him and he makes up a story every time, becoming someone else. Another man called James who grew up in Austria or Scotland or Brooklyn and who has never had to answer to a handler in his life. It is nice to pretend that is the truth, although his nightmares and uncovered memories remind him of the reality often enough.

He knows it cannot last though, and the cavalry come for him a mere two weeks after he failed to report back to them. He is woken in the dead of night by them bursting into the dorms, disturbing every man from his sleep and shining flashlights in their faces. They shout something about being the police but James recognises at least two of them as soldiers tasked with guarding him, and it takes all of his strength not to run. There is nowhere to go besides through the door they are now gathered round and while he could jump, the windows are barred to prevent him from doing just that. All he can do is fight, and to do so might provoke them into killing him, but it's a risk he is prepared to take.

They are two beds away from him when he leaps at the closest man, throwing a punch at his face and smirking in satisfaction when he hears the crack of a jaw. The light from the flashlights spin toward him and the sound in the room becomes deafening with shouts from both enemies and residents, and James barely has time to attack another target before he feels the burn of a bullet grazing his thigh. He grits his teeth against the pain and launches himself at a young man whose face is white with fear, and whose shaking hands have no time to aim a gun before it's snatched from his hands. James spins him until the man's trapped in his grip, his own gun aimed at his head.

The men disguised as police – five of them, all soldiers he recognises – halt in their tracks although they do not drop their guns. James can feel the younger man shaking in his arms, but he at least has the dignity not to cry out. The sudden silence is almost a comfort after the panic barely seconds before, and he can see wide-eyed stares of confusion from the men in their beds no matter where he turns, but those men do not concern him. He only hopes they will not be harmed in the aftermath.

The oldest soldier – a man approaching fifty who has been guarding James for as long as he can remember – steps forward with his gun still raised and a calmness in his expression that seems inappropriate. "Come now," he says, and in the half-light James can almost make out a sneer. He tightens his own finger around the trigger to be safe; feels the young man in his arms tremble when he notices. "We don't want a mess now, do we?"

James doesn't answer, but there's a look of victory on the man's face that makes him feel cold and he remembers too late that these men have the ultimate protection against him. Wiping his mind was enough to make him forget, and he curses himself in his panic as his world suddenly slows down and he can see the older man's lips form the beginnings of a word.

James pulls the trigger out of spite and finds himself falling along with the body in his arms as a familiar word is said just before the shot deafens the room.

* * *

**Four**

He is being followed.

Not that that's unusual in itself; he knows that Steve is looking for him. However, his old friend seems to have the sense to keep his distance when needed – will probably only approach when he knows Bucky wants him to – and the men following him around street corners and occupying cafés close to where he happens to be passing by are more unnerving than Steve could ever be.

They have made no attempt to approach him yet, which is a small wonder in itself, but he knows it will not be long before they make a move. He's almost impressed that they managed to track him down to Romania a whole two years after he defected – after the helicarriers came crashing down along with their organisation – but he had preferred the illusion of freedom, and their presence everywhere he turns is a reminder that he has precious little of that.

He will leave in the morning, although where to he has no idea. There are no safe havens anymore; not since Stark released Ultron into the wild. Any hopes of him keeping his head down have vanished among talks of superhuman registration acts and justice for the public, and his arm is too obvious an indicator of what he really is to keep hidden at all times. He can't spend his life in a hoodie with one hand in his pocket and simply hope that no-one notices.

Steve would help if he asked. But he doesn't know where Steve is, and even if he did it's unlikely he'd be able to reach him before his assailants make their move.

He keeps his head down as he walks, hood up despite the scorching summer heat, and he mentally notes every tail he spots. A short man in a suit by the bus stop who glanced at him twice. The dark-haired man at the café pretending to be on his phone despite having the lock-screen up. The young woman who flashes him a smile as he passes but who speaks rapid-fire Russian into her phone when she thinks he can't hear.

Breathing as evenly as he can, he turns sharply into an alley and tries to remember the route ahead of him. He has the entire city centre mapped out in his head from previous missions, and it's served him well so far, but he can hear the tell-tale signs of footsteps at his back and he breaks into a sprint.

"What's the rush?" a heavily accented woman's voice calls from behind him, and it's a voice he recognises all too well from the endless conversations that scientists would have when they thought he wasn't listening. The end of the alley suddenly seems very far away, but he knows that she will not kill him at least. He's one of the best bargaining chips in the world right now, although that fact isn't a comforting one.

He can see the street that the alley spills onto soon enough, can see cars passing on a busy road, and he focusses on that to avoid looking back and seeing if he's still being followed. He cannot hear the woman at his back but he knows she has allies everywhere, and as far as he's concerned everyone he passes is a possible threat. He tries to calm his breathing and feels relief start to wash over him as he makes it onto the street, receiving funny looks from an old couple who see him emerge but not seeming to have attracted any more attention.

He turns and intends to make his way to the safehouse where what little valuables he has is stored, but he walks straight into the path of a man in a suit he vaguely recognises. He doesn't have time to run before he hears the word 'Sputnik', and he loses consciousness just as he hears the man shout out to panicked observers; "It's all right! I've got him..."

* * *

He wakes alone with his arm trapped in a vice and his entire body numb with cold, and his head spins no matter how hard he tries to focus. He's exhausted and hungry and has no idea how long he's been unconscious, and he only lets himself feel a glimmer of hope when a warm hand cups his cheek and he looks up into concerned blue eyes that he can finally remember.

* * *

**Five**

Sometimes he misses having forgotten Steve. Sometimes he misses not caring, not having a heart so fragile where Steve's concerned it could shatter in his chest. Not that he would ever go back to the monster he'd been before – he knows that nothing in this world could convince him to go back to Hydra. He just wishes he didn't care so much.

He also wishes that Steve wasn't such a loyal, self-sacrificing idiot, but that's a complaint that is literally decades old and there's nothing he can do about it. That doesn't mean he is prepared to see Steve be paraded around as a pariah for all of the news stations to discuss and the public to mock despite the fact that they know nothing. It doesn't mean he is prepared for the war to be over only to find that Steve has placed himself behind bars in order to ensure that people like Bucky and Sam can walk free. It isn't fair.

He's had his share of unfairness. It is as familiar a companion these days as fear and death.

He can feel panic rising in his chest as he wanders among the crowds – their thirst for a spectacle palpable in the heavy air – but he keeps his composure and tries to focus on Sam speaking into his earpiece from a nearby building. There is nothing either of them can do here without making things worse, he knows, but he isn't abandoning Steve today. Not after they'd finally been reunited and fought beside each other again. Not after Bucky had finally been able to say 'I remember you' and mean it; not after Steve had said 'I love you' and he'd realised that he'd felt the same way since he was a naïve teenager.

A lot has happened in the two months since he woke in a vice. He can't leave Steve now.

The rising shouts of the crowd alert him to the approaching police van, and he wills himself to be calm as it stops outside the court steps and Steve is led from it by four armed guards. It seems a waste – Steve would not even consider hurting these people – but it's at least a relief to see that Steve seems unhurt, if wary, and that he's able to stand tall regardless of his surrender.

It's all Bucky needs to see. The public will not be subject to the events of the trial until long after it's over; he does not need to wait here while the crowd screams a frantic mix of vitriol and support. But he knows he'll stay.

The noise of the crowd is broken by a sudden gunshot and Bucky barely hears Sam swearing loudly in his ear before he looks up at the court steps and realises he cannot see Steve anymore. His heart stutters in his chest and any notion of remaining hidden is discarded as he rushes towards Steve against a crowd who are trying to run away. It's frantic and messy and his ears are filled with screams and barked orders from guards who barely have a lid on the situation, but his mind is clearer than he expects as he starts to fight his way up the steps; Steve's name enough to keep him going despite his fear at what he'll find.

He doesn't notice the static in his ear at first, as Sam fades away to another distorted voice. Doesn't notice that his hood has fallen and his sleeve has rolled up to reveal metal; that he's exposed to the world just as easily as Steve had been.

He's barely halfway up the steps before he hears a rough voice from faraway say an old, familiar word, and he collapses onto cold steps as his world crumbles around him.


End file.
